


Bold for a Hold

by tribunal



Category: Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Nerds being dorks, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, commissioned piece, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: An afternoon spent coding and the distraction in the midst.
Relationships: Wrench (Watch Dogs)/Reader, Wrench (Watch Dogs)/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	Bold for a Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FancyLadySnackCakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/gifts).



> Commissioned piece for the amazing FancyLadySnackCakes/Brimbrimbrimbrim. Genuinely an honor to write for LowRes and Wrench, I’m sweaty every time someone trusts me with their OCs, aha. Hope it’s to your liking!

He wanted, originally, with pleading pixelated features and clasped hands (the epitome of knobby-boned, scraped-knee anarchist), to be slung over your shoulders “like you’re an Amazon goddess and I’m your spoil of war. Your consensual and con-sexy spoil of war, of course”. You, elbow-deep in some incomprehensible line of code with no lube in sight, give him the chuckle he’s rightly earned and dive back into your work with gusto, too much in the hacktivist mindset to let him get his tip wet.

Because that’s what it always ends in, right? He says something corny, your knees go weak (because you’re both secretly, horrifically romantics, gooier than caramel at your cores), and you’re reverse-cowgirling him like a horndog possessed.

So Wrench brings out the best in you. Go figure.

But Josh needed these bugs ironed out _hours ago_ and Sitara’s knowing glances are getting a little too damn on the nose for your comfort, so--for once--LowRes keeps her eyes off sweet little anarchist tush and jots down yet another possible solution.

Needy little fucker he is, though; doesn’t take too well to being ignored. You’re not even remotely surprised when the chin of his mask taps against the top of your head, tattooed fingers making thick grabby motions silhouetting your breasts. But not this time, staticky sigh coming from above your head, knobby little knuckles running meaningless patterns along your sternum. “God, have I told you I love you lately? Can I tell you again? And again?”

“Tell me all you want,” You murmur, teeth coming out to gnaw at your lower lip ( _where the **fuck** is this bug?_), “Later. Before Josh flays me alive.”

Something akin to “kinky” comes from between leather and spikes, the fine patterning of metal peppering your head. No point to waving him off, not when he’ll come back more persistent than ever. And, you won’t admit it to him (not readily, at least), but it’s nice to have the constant, steady stream of affection, nice to know you’re wanted, needed, as much as you want and need.

But gods bless him, he’s got shit timing.

It doesn’t stop you from sighing out a “fine, fine”, ignoring his hands lifting from you only to clap together in glee, sinister if not for the double-carets lighting up his display madly. He won’t fit on your shoulder, not in this lifetime nor the next. You’re pleasantly surprised when Wrench shifts, pivots you both so that he’s cradled in your arms, an extremely lanky baby whose spikes are likely ripping holes in your shirt.

Again. 

“Sweetheart. Sweetness. Babycakes. _Darling!_ You make all the wires in my brain go double-crossed, like I’m getting jacked into by a decker.” Double-carets flicker into madly-flashing heart eyes, the man more and more besotted with you with each passing moment. Ugh, charmer!

A snort escapes from you, hands wildly repositioning so you can keep both he and you balanced on this chair that Marcus has all but outright begged you to replace by now. The anarchist tilde-winks hearts at you, husky laugh building behind the mask. Brat.

“Can’t do that in meatspace, come on. Too on the nose for me to play anything other than street samurai anyways.”

Stars burst on the display of his digital vision, before humming those steady, steady hearts once more. “Stay with me?” And it might as well be a proposal.

Your smile hurts your lips, stretches too wide, hurts dimples in the apples of your cheeks. “Always.”

He snuggles into the meat of your breast, squeezing one with a barely-audible “honk, honk” underneath his breath. By instinct you drop him, ignoring muttered cries of “my sweetmeats!”

“Always,” You repeat. “But only after I fix this bug.”

**Author's Note:**

> For writing updates, turn your attention to my Twitter, @GODCOMPLEXXED


End file.
